Twenty-eleven is going to be a year of new opportunities. I am going to move to the big smoke. I am going to try new things. Meet new people. Find a new job. I am going to smile. I am going to make attempts at enjoying my life. I am going to try to so all the things I said I would do last year but instead spent my time in bed. I will kick this depressions arse. I will read more books (I have to read more than 41 to top last year). I want to be a better person. Interesting, happy, nice. Not miserable, boring and grumpy.
I would post my goals for the year, my to-do list, but they are personal. Now that I know people actually read this on occasion, I feel the need to censor myself. I don't like that I feel the need to do this, in my own blog, but hey, whatever.
I have so many things to say. Unfortunately though, I lack motivation. I have my best ideas for writing as I'm falling asleep. I have entire stories, entire blogs written word for word in my head. I can actually see the words written. If I could type them out without actually typing, I would be a published author. When I come to out them onto paper/screen though, anxiety about my writing hits and I suddenly forget everything. Anxiety about my writing, you ask? Whatever do you mean?
Well, you see, in primary school, I was the spelling geek. I was the grade 6 girls spelling champion (I would have been the overall champion if it wasn't for an unfortunate incident involving a quickly scrawled 'U' looking like a 'C', thus making my 'vacuum' looking like 'vaccum'). In year seven and eight, my english teacher had me doing year eight and nine work. He encouraged me and pushed me in ways I rarely have been since. I would have been in the accelerated learning class in year 10, had it not been for my hatred of school and everyone in it making my rebeliousness blossom. As a sidenote, I was suspended six times in six years of schooling. Anyway. When I changed schools in year eleven, I continued my lack of doing anything in class (my mother later admitted to doubting my chances of finishing school at all). In year twelve, however, something sparked, and I somehow managed to wrangle Dux of English for my year. Of all the students in my year twelve class, I was the one who produced the best writing skills. There were some amazing students. Some ranking very high in the state. I was told by many people that my writing was fantastic. I know it was. I managed to bring tears to my own eyes with a piece I wrote. Now, since leaving uni, I feel as though my intelligence has plummeted. I used to feel smart. Now I feel daft, a step away from chroming paint in a shop doorway. I don't want to be scanning purchases at a checkout in twenty years time. I'm too smart for that. Well. I used to be too smart for that. Now, who knows.
Shit, that was a bit of a tangent that I wandered off along, but the point I was trying to make was, because of my high standards of writing in my past, I now can't write anything without judging it against my (very talented) peers. The more I want to write well, the harder it is to actually produce anything of quality. Thus, I clam up, and write a whingeing pile of crud like this. I am physically unable to write without overthinking everything. I would like to be funny, sarcastic, interesting, intelligent in my writing like I once was, years ago. Instead, my self-loathing and self-indulgent shyte like this is the only thing that will spew onto the page from my mind.
Until next time, I hope you guys are happier than me, and your new year is a good one.
ScarXo
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